Adventures Update: Apocalypse Party

I probably wouldn't have gone to Apocalypse Party if it hadn't sounded like such a uniquely awesome idea. Originally, it was planned to simulate a drill for any kind of impending apocalypse. These guys who had some property out in the country decided to invite a bunch of people to kick back in the wilderness for a weekend, eat tinned food and sleep in cars, pretending the world as we know it had come to an end. The plan was also to crank a stereo, drink and pretty much just party the whole time.

The location was shrouded in secrecy. The only directions given were some very exact map co-ordinates. Anyone who wanted to come was supposed to enter them into Google Maps and work it out from there. When Buglustre told us she was driving, Vegatrain and I jumped at the chance for a road trip. In our haste, we had both completely forgotten to make elaborately obscure mix cds for the trip, but Buglustre had us covered. The all-ska playlist that resulted reminded me of being on tour back when I was in the band, driving from gig to gig and listening to similar mixes. It was a nice thing to be reminded of.

The drive itself was mostly uneventful, apart from the indignant terror I experienced when I realised the woman in the car next to us was watching a TV in the dashboard of her car WHILE SHE WAS DRIVING. DON'T DO THAT. I hate it so much when people break the road rules, or act in a generally careless manner while driving. Safety first, everyone. Safety first. Buglustre managed to bring me back to the conversation by telling me about her recent experiences mixing vodka with spumante, although that had the unpleasant side-effect of making my liver recoil in terror. Soon enough though, we were bumping around on the dirt road that led to our post-apocalyptic destination.

At first it didn't look like much: a group of people standing around, talking and laughing. Like every other party, only, in the middle of nowhere. Kind of like the parties I went to when I was sixteen, held in a friend's back paddock so we wouldn't get caught underage drinking.

But when I saw the main set-up, I was pretty impressed. In the hollow of a hill was the ruined remains of an old cottage. This is where the party was set up. Old couches, probably collected from the side of the road, were scattered around a fairly impressive stereo system. I'm pretty sure there was an old boat amongst the rubbish. The hosts struggled to string up some lights before it started getting dark. A guy with a camera was eating from a large tin of beans. The view was spectacular. 

The outhouse was pretty authentic, too, although a lot of the girls didn't seem to look at that as a good thing. I first needed to use it at dusk, just when it was starting to become difficult to see (the boys were still struggling with the lights). It was basically an aluminium box. Some girls offered to hold the door shut for me, because apparently that had been a problem so far.

"Wow, just like solitary confinement," I said, to no-one in particular as I stepped inside. The girls laughed awkwardly and then ignored me. Inside, it was pitch black. The only light filtering in was through tiny pin-pricks on the walls, which created little dots that danced on the back of the door. I had to be careful where I stepped, as the heels of my boots kept finding their way into holes in the floor. I quite liked it, really.

Although I didn't know many people there, it seemed to be one of those places where just hearing a one-line conversational snippet was enough.

"It's too cold for an orgy, everything would shrink"

"Hey, did you hear? I parted the red sea."

There was this outgoing goth girl there, who seemed to take a real liking to me. I was introducing myself to the group by teaching them some dances that I (or friends of mine) have created over the years. The 'These Are My Feet' dance (consisting mainly of gesturing wildly to your feet in time to the music) was the true winner of the night, although I felt that the 'Psychology Cat' didn't get the recognition it deserved. I soon found myself relying on a dance I termed the 'Existential Crisis', which consisted of me bobbing awkwardly along to the music, feeling self-conscious and contemplating my own existence. I moved off the dance-floor and found myself talking to people.

Me: You know, this reminds me a lot of 'Tomorrow, When The War Began'.

Goth Girl: What?

Me: You know, the books?

Goth Girl: I don't read.

Me: Oh.

Goth Girl: Except for necrophiliac porn.

Me: Oh.

I enjoyed the time I spent there, but for me, the party was over when they started playing Mumford and Sons. I hate Mumford and Sons. I hate them. It is not that they are a bad band, they are okay. But because folk is one of my favourite genres, I have listened to enough bands to know that they are well, kind of bland and unoriginal. It wouldn't bother me so much, except that somehow everyone seems to think they are these amazing indie-folk superstars, pioneers in music, Triple J Hottest 100 Number One!

They aren't. Seriously. For anyone who thinks Mumford and Sons are in anyway an original or interesting band, listen to Local Natives. Listen to Noah and the Whale. Listen to Andrew Bird. Listen to The Middle East, who were playing alongside Blandford and Sons at Laneway this year and got not even a tiny percentage of the recognition that they got. That's what annoys me. It's the fact that there are these amazing bands slogging it out for peanuts, and then someone releases a commercial tune labelled as 'indie-folk' and everyone thinks its revolutionary. It's not.

Anyway, back at the party. At one point the stereo was turned off for a haphazard band to start playing. I was hopeful, but then quickly disappointed. I guess they didn't really think they needed to rehearse together beforehand, then when they got there realised that they didn't know what they were doing and packed up after about three songs. I guess in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, you're not exactly spoilt for musical choice.

When the band packed up, a lone saxophonist took their place, and just started jamming. He was really good, but by this stage I had well and truly recoiled into my cocoon of introversion, and hearing a saxophone just made me miss the instruments my parents still have yet to send over. This is the longest I have ever gone without playing music regularly, and I am craving it so badly. Just one hit from a nice piano, please. One sax riff, I'm desperate. I'd settle for a glockenspiel at this stage.

Feeling totally old and boring, I ended up napping in Buglustre's car for awhile until she was ready to go. I did have a good time, and I'm glad I went, but I guess I'm a bit too fond of pre-apocalyptic comforts to make a habit of such adventures.

-Smackie Onassis

An Article In Favour Of An Ant-Based Radioactive Superhero

I'm going to put it out there: ants are probably the most underrated awesome creatures on the entire planet. Now that Meattrain has a job being a chemistry dude at a uranium mine, we have spent some time discussing how likely it is that he is going to be bitten by some kind of radioactive creature and develop super-powers. We also discussed, if he were to set this up on purpose (“hypothetically”), which would be the coolest creature to give him his powers. Overwhelmingly, everyone seemed to agree that you couldn’t go past the classic, the spider, because those things are pretty hardcore I guess. And it’s true, for sheer murdering prowess, you can’t go past the spider.

“But what about ants?” I suggested, being instantly laughed back into silence. In a world where a spider can kill you in an hour without even getting up from its tiny spider couch, ants don’t seem like leaders in the creepy-crawly kingdom. But come on guys, give them a chance.

There was a friday night a while ago where my good friend Buglustre was at a party. She didn’t really know anyone there and, meanwhile, I was at home reading about ants (and loving it, I assure you). What sort of ended up happening was that I would text her something interesting I had learned about ants, and she would use it as a conversation starter. Needless to say, it wasn’t a very good move. Those people still probably remember her as ‘that weird ant girl’. 

But seriously, how are people not interested in ants? In my opinion, there is just so much potential for a radioactive ant-based superhero that would TOTALLY kick arse. Here is why:

First of all, ants can lift up to twenty times their body weight. That's an obvious superhero advantage. There's the amazing speed as well. If an ant were a dude he would be able to run as fast as a racehorse. Are you listening to this, Meattrain? Can your fancy spiderman run that fast?

But these aren’t the most amazing things about ants. Not even close. Have you EVEN HEARD about the Paraponera, a totally bitchin South American ant? Basically, this ant can hurt you so, so badly, and it is not even radioactive yet. Yet.* 

And, yes, I know about Ant-Man, but that guy was totally not living up to his full potential as an ant representative in the superhero world. As far as I'm aware, he couldn't do much except shrink down to tiny size, which is kind of the opposite of a superpower, really. 'Hey Crime, I am going to thwart you by making myself conveniently sized for you to totally squish me with your shoe'.

Get back to me on that one, Comic Books.

-Smackie Onassis

*For more amazingly hardcore ant facts, consult your local Cracked article, such as this one: http://www.cracked.com/article_15816_the-5-most-horrifying-bugs-in-world.html

Nana Flapper

My parents were always very interested in geneology. I remember them being fascinated by various attempts at family trees, and stories about family members who had in someway achieved notoriety (such as how my grandfather's sister was apparently a contemporary of D.H. Lawrence. She allegedly probably had relations with him at some point.)

As soon as I was old enough to understand genetics, I started asking questions. I couldn't figure out how, if my heritage was entirely made up of anglo-saxons, I had been born with dark, curly hair and a generally very mediterranean complexion. All I need to do is think about turning on a fluorescent light and I turn brown. That's not very English.

Naturally, the answer I always expected was something along the lines of, "We bought you from some travelling gypsies when you were a baby", but funnily enough that was never the answer I received. They usually told me that I was just, well, a complete genetic throwback. When I asked where those genes even came from to begin with, they would usually tell me the story of Nana Flapper.

Nana Flapper was my favourite relative, hands down, ever. She was excellent. She was my grandmother's mother, and had the balls to be a single mother in the 1920s. Not only that, but she never revealed to a single soul who the father was. It was her most closely guarded secret, one she kept to her deathbed, and probably the answer to my mystery genes.

I always liked Nana Flapper stories. One oft-repeated piece of family mythology tells the story of how she won her first house on a poker game. My mother always insisted that this was probably an exaggeration, but I can't think of anything that story could have evolved from that is not already pretty excellent. I totally believed it, too. I saw the way she could pick a horse, right up into her nineties. It was rare that she wouldn't come out ahead, which always seemed like an amazing act of rebellion towards my Christian parents.

Nana Flapper was a smart talker, too. It is a very grounding experience when, as a teenager, you are sassed by your 90-something great grandmother. I loved it. She was also probably a big influence in encouraging me to write, as well. If any of us ever complained about having nothing to do, she would come back with "What do mean there's nothing to do? You've got a brain haven't you? Write a book!'. And I would.

Nana Flapper died some years ago, at the grand old age of 97. It was always reassuring to me, that someone like her could live to such an old age and get away with it. I have spent some time imagining who my mystery great-grandfather was, and why his identity was such a secret. Perhaps he was some kind of dashing Spanish superhero. That would explain why we can never know who he was.

-Smackie Onassis

Cats and Kittens: An Internet Interlude

My Thoughts On Spammers

Being a person who spends a lot of time on the internet, I have seen my fair share of spam. Admittedly, I have completely ignored (and then instantly forgot about) most of it, but sometimes the audacity of what they are trying to get away with catches my attention. For example, the type of spam I see the most is probably through MSN Messenger, with fake accounts trying to add me in order to send me misleadingly titled links. At first they sounded a bit like real people, but after awhile, the spammers got more and more creative with what they would have me believe are the names of real people. I could maybe handle the likes of 'Dick Rimmington' (that is actually a name Meattrain came up with), but I draw the line at 'apolonia_bayliss556677@hotmail.com'. I mean, Apolonia? Seriously? What is that, a breed of horse? 

According to google, it is actually the name of a few ancient greek towns (I bet that was confusing. Imagine travelling across the country on horseback only to be told you had the wrong Apolonia, and the one you wanted was right back where you came from). I sincerely hope nobody actually names their children this. That being said, I have heard some ridiculous things that people have actually named their children. I would go into more detail, but that is a different story for a different time. Right now, I am talking about spam.

See though, I don't mind a bit of creativity in spam. I just don't think the fake name is the best place to utilise your creative prowess. Spammers are always trying to trick people into clicking on their links. It is how they make any money at all. Normally they stick to the classics:

Hey I just found out about this amazing new diet solution that really works!

Are you 'in the mood' for some cheap imitation viagra today?

Check out my profile on this new dating site for furries! Maybe afterwards we can have some totally creepy sex!

The problem with these is that, well, first of all none of them are really links I would be interested in. But mainly, everybody KNOWS these tricks by now. No-one is really going to fall for them. This is where you need to be a bit more creative. For example, some links I bet people would TOTALLY click on:

Hey, you know how some people look like magicians? Check this character out.

Oh man I am never eating that much beef ever again, not ever. I am serious this time.

Whose blood were you covered in that night, anyway?

So I hear your daughter is giving it away for free these days...

I could go on. But I won't. Well, maybe later. But you get the idea.

-Smackie Onassis

The Review Revue #1

The Review Revue was originally one of many blog ideas I came up with before things got kinda crazy and I didn't up creating them. Basically I decided that I would review one thing from my day, as many days as I could be bothered. Although it probably won't happen too often, I have decided to make it a regular segment here. For the first one, I will use the review I wrote when I first started trying out the idea.

Fear and Loathing In Unley Road Coles (originally written 15/12/09)

Today my shopping adventures took me to a previously unvisited supermarket: the Coles on Unley Road. Of course, Coles is everywhere, but nothing made me sadder about my recent move than the thought of not being within walking distance of such satisfying bargains as were provided daily by the Coles at Castle Plaza. I was hoping to find a replacement. The branch on Unley Road seemed like it had good potential. Although not within walking distance of my house, the complex is close enough to avoid being, as some would say, “a friggin pain in the arse”.

To put it simply, I was not disappointed. I was, in fact, quite satisfied. Almost too satisfied. Today, friends, I saw bargains the likes of which have never been seen*. Highlights include 4x500ml of V for EIGHT DOLLARS. This means that a four pack of 500ml cans was 70 cents cheaper than a four pack of the smaller cans. I don’t know how much is in the smaller cans, but I know enough to realise that this is a good deal. Where else do you even get charged less for a greater volume of product? Prostitutes maybe, but I bet that’s it. There were a bunch of other bargains, but none that got me as excited as that V. Hell, I don’t even usually drink V, and if I do I can’t usually get through 500ml of the stuff in one sitting, but I bought it anyway. It was too good a deal.

But the real highlight of the day, the thing that had me totally and completely won over, was at the checkouts. Not only was there a carton of spring water freely available for customer use, but there was a pile of complimentary plastic cups to make consumption of said water easy and trouble free! I must add that there was no easily accesible bin for cup disposal, but it is possible that Coles were trying to encourage patrons to take home and reuse cups, maybe for the benefit of the environment or something. I would have to be ok with that I GUESS.

One minor drawback is that the system of taking and calling out numbers at the deli section did cause me to accidentally yell ‘Bingo!’ when my number was called. However, some would say this is a flaw in my own brain rather than in their system. This is also a problem I have to deal with in most supermarket delis.

All in all, I left Unley Rd Coles thoroughly satisfied and will be partaking in future shopping experiences there, which I hope will be equally as enjoyable. Well done, Unley Road Coles. You get an A. With a smiley face stamp. Maybe even a sticker, one that says “Terrifyingly Good Work!” and has a picture of a ghost**.

*this week.

** I totally got a sticker that was something like this from my piano teacher once. I remember it had a ghost on it, but I don’t remember the caption. I assume it was something along these lines.

The Dude Ranch: An Introduction

Ok, so when this household began, way back before I knew any of these guys, it was christened 'The Dude Ranch', a name that has kept, even though we no longer live in the original Ranch (Now it's 'Dude Ranch 2: Dude Harder'). There was a minor amount of discussion when I eventually moved in as to whether we could still call it that when one of the residents had girl bits. The answer was obvious though, because I am totally a dude in 'tude*.

I have always said that the current Dude Ranch would make just, the best sitcom. This is how it would go:

What happens when an "alternative" vegetarian couple start living with a straight-shooting, fast-talking nuclear chemist who eats enough meat for the three of them? Throw in Richard Melons, the ultimate wacky neighbour, and you've got a recipe for hilarity! Laugh at their trials and tribulations as they work through their differences and go on the craziest of adventures! Wednesday nights, on the Laff Trax Network.

That is actually a pretty good description of our house. Also, I'm not sure when absurdist song parody became the most acceptable form of response in our house, but somewhere along the lines, that kinda happened. Here are some scenes so common that no-one even looks up from the x-box anymore:

A: Hey, this is a tasty snack!

B: If you like it then you should have put some cheese on it!

(That Beyonce song - also very good advice most of the time.)

Vegatrain: (playing Pokemon) Po-po-po-pokemon po-po-pokemon.

(Lady Gaga - Pokerface)

Smackie/Vegatrain: (sunburnt) They call me albino when I get this way!

(Quasi - The Rhino. This is specific to us because we are the only ones in the house who know this song. Everybody reading go find it and listen to it now because it is so great.)

Smackie: (at snack time) Snack box, snack box, you're my snack box! You can give it to me when I'm hungry for some snacks!

(Tom Jones - Sex Bomb)

Smackie: Where is my phone? Where is my phone? Where is my phone? Out in the water, shit it won't work now.

(The Pixies - Where Is My Mind?)

I will leave it there, because there is probably only so much humour to squeeze out of this comedy orange. But yeah, that, only all the time.

 - Smackie Onassis

*I'm sorry. I tried so hard to avoid using this turn of phrase, but there was no way I could properly express it that didn't rhyme, so I decided to throw sanity to the wind and just go for it.

Hey Everybody

As soon as Vegatrain heard that I was starting he blog, he first insisted that he have a guest column. When I agreed, he began to "negotiate his contract" and insisted that he get a credit on the front page as an 'Article Contributer'.

So, hey, everybody, listen up.

Thinly Veiled Credits:

Top Lady: Smackie Onassis

Article Contributer: Vegatrain

Assorted One-Liners of Varying Quality

-A Confession: Whenever I feel like I’m coming up with something funny, it turns out to just be the lyrics to ‘Kung Fu Fighting'.

-My alcohol rule: The worse an alcohol tastes, the stupider it has to make me act/look for me to drink it.

-A slogan that would have got the Kyoto proticol through for sure: Vote “Totes” for Kyotes!

-Oh man I had something really funny and insightful to say, but I opened the file and then forgot about it so I just started writing the lyrics of ‘Kung Fu Fighting’

-Is this acceptable in polite society: saying “clearing one’s tubes” instead of “clearing  one’s throat”?

-My favourite thing to say when on nice walks with friends at night is ‘You know, I’ve seen a lot of horror movies that started like this...’

-An idea for a photoshoot: I am a boxer, right, but the thing I am boxing is INJUSTICE

-The Smackie Onassis Third Law of Social Dynamics: Bitches get Stitches. This is also the first and second law.

-I really like that infidelity is always called ‘Cheating’ because doesn’t that imply that relationships are just a game anyway?

-If I were ever a teacher, and there was this total shit of a kid in my class, I would mark his final exam as follows: 

C

(me after class. Because you got a F)

-I am in favour of human cloning, just because I'd love to see a 7 piece one man band.

The Scarecrow: An Interesting True Story (hopefully)

There was a group of us who used to drink at this Croatian bowling club, universally referred to as ‘The Cro’. It wasn’t that we were particular interested in the culture, or the sport of bowling (I don’t remember seeing anyone use the green for anything other than drunken cartwheels). It was more that the drinks were cheap and the staff were friendly. The staff, in this case, usually consisted of a man named Pavo, who would give you a free drink if he liked you. If he didn’t like you he would cut you off and then brutally murder you ("probably"), but for a poor student, it was worth the risk for a free drink or two. Luckily, Pavo liked me. Apart from the awkward indie kids, there was a crowd of  mismatched regulars who used to drink there, the most interesting of which was probably a man they called ‘The Scarecrow’. But, as I was told very strictly the first night I was there, you must never call him that to his face, not under any circumstance. The first night I met the Scarecrow, he began the night by drinking alone at his table and hurling abuse at us. Being outcasts with a sense of humour big enough to cancel out our sense of caution, we invited him over to our table.

He was covered in wrinkled tattoos of naked mermaids. Every second word from his mouth was ‘fuck’ or ‘cunt’. He interrupted every other sentence from our mouths to recite his own spoken word songs.

When we distracted him from the subject of his musical prowess, he started talking about his businesses. According to him, he had run a number of successful strip clubs. According to everyone else, these were actually brothels, the success of which can’t really be accounted for. He went on to say he was opening up a new one in our town. It was then that he looked over at me and said “Hey, you look like you’ve got pretty big boobs. Do you want a job?”

I told him, going on the basis that it was, in fact, a strip joint he was talking about, that I was not what you’d call a very good dancer. He responded with a laugh, telling me that no-one would be paying any attention to my dancing. My friends decided to vocalise their support by agreeing that I did have quite excellent breasts, and recounting stories of the various times they had seen them, and how good that was. I’m not sure if it was their intention, but this managed to ensure that the conversation was well and truly changed from my potential career in the lucrative stripping industry (with perhaps, the possibility of a best-selling novel recounting my experiences. I could call it ‘The Stripping News’.)

I left town not long after that, so I don’t think I ever saw the Scarecrow again. I can only imagine that he is still sitting at his own table at The Cro, alternating between hurling abuse and asking strange women if they would like to be paid to take off their clothes.